


Sing Me Safely Home

by dreaminghour



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Age Difference, Animal Death, Beyond the Wall - Freeform, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dead People, Edd is alive!, Eventual Jon Snow/Tormund Giantsbane, Fantasy, Found Family, Hunters & Hunting, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, King Bran Stark, M/M, Magic, Original Character(s), Past Child Abuse, Past Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Past Jon Snow/Ygritte, Past Miscarriage, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-War, Prophecy, Queering Westeros, R Plus L Equals J, Religion, Runes, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Theon is alive!, Tormund's Daughters - Freeform, Wargs & Warging (A Song of Ice and Fire), Wilderness Survival, Wildlings | The Free Folk (A Song of Ice and Fire), Yara wants independence!, Zombies, snow zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29031810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreaminghour/pseuds/dreaminghour
Summary: Weeks ago, Queen Daenerys was struck down on the day of her bloody victory by her lover and nephew, the man called Jon Snow. Before that, their combined forces had destroyed the Night King and his army... yet winter still howls in the North, and snows are descending upon the Six Kingdoms of Westeros.King Bran has sent Jon Snow to the wall. The three-eyed-crow is unable to see into the heart of winter and needs someone selfless and trustworthy to do what the war could not. Distraught that so much pain and suffering still hasn't fulfilled their dreams of spring, Jon is worried he'll fail and, worse, that he wouldn't find it so terrible.Mance once imbued Tormund with the spiritual mission to make things better for the free folk beyond the wall, but there is no life when the Lands of Always Winter begin to stretch talons further and further. Tormund once promised to stand by Jon and is determined to help his friend set the world to rights, no matter the cost.Their bond was forged in battle, the blood of their covenant thicker than the water of the womb, yet family cannot be so easily dismissed when ghosts linger and children cry out in the bitter darkness...
Relationships: Jon Snow & Sansa Stark, Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Comments: 16
Kudos: 20





	Sing Me Safely Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Birdie_Lo_Green](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdie_Lo_Green/gifts).



> I have marked "Graphic Depictions Of Violence" and "Major Character Death" not because they are included yet, but because I want to assure readers that if there are warnings, these will be the only ones. No other warnings will apply. I'm just not sure if both these warnings will apply, yet.
> 
> More specific content warnings can be found in tags.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon heads north with a mission. Tormund meets him at the wall. (8,500~ words)

_How do men return home after war? When Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, returned to Winterfell with an orphan we all assumed we knew what that meant: Lady Catelyn had been betrayed. All believed the Targaryens had been destroyed, meanwhile the greatest threat to the throne was hidden from King Robert in plain sight for more than twenty years._

_That orphan, we all now know, was Jon Snow by name, but Aegon Targaryen by birth._

_How did Jon Snow return from the war? He was a traitor to the Queen he'd pledged to follow, perhaps would someday have married, instead this 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Bastard Warden of the North, became a kinslayer and a queenslayer with the same stroke. After the Ruin of King's Landing, the lost Targaryen became the last Targaryen. How did he return from that?_

_He didn’t._

_— Archmaester Samwell Tarly (undated entry)_

* * *

Jon found Tormund waiting for him at Castle Black.

The journey north from King’s Landing to Winterfell had been unpleasant and lonely, and had twisted worse than a knife in the gut. For the first leg Jon had been locked in a prison carriage. Riding alongside were a contingent of young, ill-armored, freshly scarred knights; they were something between jailers and honor guard.

Jon spent those days blind to the frost covered Riverlands, the fields which had not been ravaged by war or dragonfire now planted with those root vegetables and hardy cabbages which would be all the kingdoms lived on for the rest of winter. They’d prepared for a long night as best they could, but war had torn their efforts out by the roots. Once, in a time out of mind, they'd driven winter back with dragon glass and built a wall to contain it, asked for volunteers to fight it, and now— Jon did not think of the war.

Yet, he had not been completely insensate. He’d unwittingly kept an eye on the men who rode alongside, their watches and riding patterns, and had thereby learned their names. He hadn't realized he'd been getting to know them until the seventh day when he’d thanked Ser Niclas by name. They were in the swamps of the Neck and the ground was as cold and hard as the frozen lakes of the North.

Upon hearing his name on Jon’s lips, Ser Niclas had gone pale, perhaps embarrassed that he'd gotten so used to handing off Jon like a doll from carriage to campfire, perhaps ashamed to be spoken to by a traitor. It seemed they'd all forgotten he had a will, let alone a voice. Jon had stared back in horrified shock, as though he'd forgotten as well. Flustered the two men had quickly continued their usual roles: Jon had been shackled in the carriage once more, Ser Niclas had locked the door behind him.

That night, when they'd stopped to camp and Jon was curled with his back to the fire, they'd whispered about it. One of the knights stood near his feet, one eye on him and another on the rise to the King’s Road. The men had all kept their voices low, a courtesy which was borne from politeness rather than to keep their thoughts private.

"He thanked me when he'd finished eating. First I'd heard him speak since we left."

"I thought he'd be silent this whole ride north.”

“Better for you to entertain your fancies of the pretty bastard, eh?”

A dull thud had come as one knight struck another with a hefty but friendly blow.

“Not a bastard though, is he?" Ser Niclas had a rough voice when he whispered, more growl-like. “He’s actually the lost heir, Aegon Targaryen.”

“Heh, a lost egg.”

“Bit sad though. Hasn’t really been like a person at all. Like he’s been broken. Thought we might get to know him a bit. The king who came back from the dead, led the armies to victory against the wights, even killed a queen when she went mad. They’ll be singing songs about him for years.”

“Well, you know about the queen and him then, don’t you?”

Their voices had then dropped lower, but Jon had stopped listening all the same. He didn’t really care much what they said to him or what anyone said about him. No one could say anything worse than what he'd already been meditating on for leagues upon leagues, and in the endless time before that. It was no less than he deserved.

But the following morning, when sparrows had bitterly reminded him of warmer days, he’d felt that gulf between him and other men, and had tried to speak again before they set off. Ser Daryn had been minding him in that vague way guards do when a prisoner is using a tree as an outhouse: watchful, without looking too interested in the particulars. Jokes about privates weren’t funny after this many days of dull travel in hard saddles. 

Jon knew that Ser Daryn’d been the one teasing Ser Xanar about some fancy, but in a tone that had been affectionate. Among the pale and beige faced knights, Ser Xanar was notable for his dark skin, and he was the first knight from the Summer Isles that Jon had ever heard of. Ser Daryn was the joy of their group, even if he wasn’t the oldest, or the one leading this journey. Jon knew when someone was good for morale and had a promotion ahead of them. Even if those days were long behind him.

“Come on, m’lord.” Ser Daryn’d nudged Jon and stifled a yawn.

Jon had laced up his trousers and tried to speak. “Just call me Jon,” was what he’d wanted to say, but his voice was ashes in his throat and he’d coughed, remembering the taste of blood.

When they’d first shackled Jon, he’d let down his facade of cheer that he’d carried— saying farewell to the only family he’d known— and had set himself adrift in a numbing sea of mourning. He mourned Daenerys in a bruising, punishing way, and in an ancient way he remembered the grief he still held for Ygritte.

He wasn’t ready yet, he decided.

“Here,” Ser Daryn’d said gaily, loudly, and handed Jon a waterskin.

Jon hadn’t tried speaking on purpose again. And by the time they’d rode into Winterfell, after another cycle of seven grueling days, he’d managed to stop listening to the knights all together. They were ten young men cobbled together by Bran, all in some way showing promise and deserving his trust. But all of them were too far away for Jon to reach.

He would forget all of them soon enough. He would forget Ser Niclas worrying about his baby sister, Ser Whelan’s sour relationship with his father, Ser Xanar and Ser Daryn’s good-natured teasing. They were all of them veterans of war who might have once known him on the battlefield, days when he’d been something like a king, but he had to let go of that now. So Jon would go to the wall and then keep going. Though he might have once been Lord Commander, he’d left Castle Black with too many scars. He’d be safer outside the keep, than in it.

Just three more cycles after he made it to Winterfell and he’d go see the Lands of Always Winter.

“What in the seven hells…?” A familiar voice rang out in the courtyard. “You must be kidding me.”

It was afternoon when they arrived. Ser Niclas unlocked the door once they'd come to a stop. Jon stood hunched in a daze on the step of the prison carriage in the courtyard of his childhood home, and Dolorous Edd frowned up at him.

“What’s this carriage, I asked myself, must be his grace is riding in style.”

“Hullo, Edd.” Jon trod the steps, and was immediately flanked by Ser Niclas and Ser Pyke who each took him by an elbow.

“You can unshackle him, good gods.” Edd put a hand on his hip, above his sword, and winced.

“You heal all right?” Jon asked.

“Yeah, right as rain.” Edd gruffly scrubbed at his face and then looked both the knights in the eye, one after the other. “There a reason you won’t unshackle him? He’s under my command now. So you might as well give up the responsibility while I’m willing to take it.” He sighed. “Gods know I don’t want it.”

In a moment, Jon grasped Edd’s hand and half-smiled in spite of his own weariness. “It’s really good to see you, Edd.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you saw the scars I got. Nearly cleaved in two, stabbed in the back— I almost wish I’d died so I could just be done with it.”

“You’d have been turned by the Night’s King, would have attacked us for the other side.”

“True, there’s no getting out of a war, not even the dead can rest in these parts,” Edd said. He sighed again and turned to the keep, flagging over a woman carrying a pail of water from the well and gestured to the knights. “Take the King’s men to the guard's hall, would you? See they’re fed something warm.”

She nodded and faintly Jon heard her say “this way” as she passed behind him. Jon followed his friend through the keep.

“So you’re taking the black again,” Edd said, glancing over his shoulder with a grimace. “You shouldn’t. You found the perfect way out I think.”

“What, getting stabbed and dying?”

“I nearly managed it myself. But then I didn’t have the seductive priestess of some new Essosi god to revive me.” Edd patted his ribs and grunted, pausing at the door to the library.

“What’re we doing here, Edd?”

“Her grace wanted to speak to you in private when you came.” He nodded to the door but made no other motion toward it. “You can find me in the Maester’s tower after, if you’re serious about the black.” And with a wheeze he limped off.

Jon paused with his hand on the door before taking a breath and going in.

Inside it was warm, but when he shut the door it was silent as the crypt. No rustle of paper, no footsteps. Then he recognized the high tones of plucked strings and the rhythmic song of a droning Andal-oak.

He saw Sansa was bent over a wooden box near the fire, her eyes intent as she moved her fingers from fret to fret, while the other hand stroked a small wand across the strings. He hadn’t seen anyone play one in so long, yet he recognized the sound as from a dream. Perhaps the tune was one she’d been working on before they’d all left Winterfell near the end of their last, long summer. He noticed hesitation in her movements, rapt with concentration as she was. It had been long for her as well.

She sighed and laid the wand aside abruptly. “Are you feeling better?”

“Pardon?” Jon’s mouth was dry.

“Are you feeling better now that you’ve been publicly driven across the kingdoms like a common thug taking the black?” She covered the box with a velvet cloth before turning to look at him, her gaze icey.

He felt thin and wrung out but he swiftly crossed and knelt on the stone floor, his face flushed.

"My apologies, your grace. I meant no offense."

She was 'her grace,' now. Jon saw that clearly. She'd grown into a young woman with a firm set to her chin, who could cut with a glance. Was he no better than a child in comparison? He might have been wearing his sadness like a disguise, it was hard to tell after so many weeks.

"Get up, Jon." Sansa stood from her chair and took his hands as they stood in front of the fire. "Jon," she spoke more softly. "Despite everything, I never imagined you wouldn’t be king."

When they’d parted at King’s Landing, it had been public. Jon had been brought out in shackles to the make-shift stableyard, representatives from most kingdoms and of the unsullied watching him say his goodbyes. It had been brief and stilted. He’d told Sansa she’d be a great queen, and she’d thanked him. He’d asked Arya to come visit him, and she’d refused. He’d bent the knee to Bran, and he’d nodded. And that was it. Ten hastily packed knights to guard the carriage he’d been sat in while so many who had very recently been obeying his orders looked on.

“I really did mean what I said.” And he repeated his words from that brief farewell: “‘The North needs a Stark to lead it through this long night. Winter isn’t over yet.’ You’ve already done our people a greater service than I ever did. You’ve freed us from the south, you’ve resettled the Gift.”

“You did that, Jon.”

He slowly tugged his hands out of hers.

“Aye, I did that. And more.”

Sansa took his face in her hands and forced him to look into her eyes.

"Why are you trying to punish yourself? You did the right thing.”

He tried to pull away from her, but she caught him by the neck. Her touch was light, but he dared not ignore it. She was queen, he was a subject even if her kin. Things were as they should be. If he kept saying it, he could focus on this new life and disregard all else. Love was the death of duty and he had killed his.

She pulled him close, her chin resting on his shoulder. 

"I forbid you from living as a prisoner in your own home. You saved everyone Jon, if you had—"

"Don't."

Sansa let him slip away.

He went to where the map table still stood in the center of the room, it’s borders obscured by books and papers waiting to be dismissed. He used them as distraction while they waited for words to find them.

“So you are actually taking the black,” she said at last. And when he didn’t respond, continued: “It wasn’t just a ruse to allay her men?”

Jon took a shuddering breath.

“It’s what the king wants,” he said.

“But what do you want?”

“I’m not ready to talk about this with you.”

“If not me, then with whom will you speak of this? If not now, when?”

Perhaps it was selfish, thought Jon, to hold back with someone who had lost so much as well. They’d both been raised by the same, great man but the memory meant something else to him now. He’d been wrapped in cotton lies all his life. The man he’d held close to his heart had never been his father.

“I would pardon you,” Sansa said. “I want to pardon you.”

“That’s not what Bran wants.”

“I don’t care,” she said, a note of old petulance echoing there.

He glanced over his shoulder at her and saw how her eyes were shining. He nodded and said, “your grace,” and fled like a crow long trapped in a chimney.

“It was a wonderful coronation.” Edd was signing a letter he’d just been finishing when Jon came in. “Really rousing. I suppose if you’re used to that sort of thing, you’d not find it so moving, but for me, well, if she weren’t already queen, I’d have voted for her.”

“Why don’t you take a pardon then? Queen Sansa seems really eager to hand them out.”

“Me? Pah.”

Edd fiddled with the wax for sealing the letter. He had been given use of a desk in a private room near the infirmary. He’d been here for months, as there was yet no Maester sent to the wall. They’d lost Sam to Bran, after all. Jon had seen the Maester who was reluctantly coming north with them as a favor to the Citadel. He was a young man of no repute and Jon could see why Edd had stayed so long at Winterfell instead.

“Because as long as I have the Night’s Watch, I’m a Lord.”

There was some more fiddling before Edd withdrew another piece of parchment and picked up his quill again.

Once darkness began to fall, Edd took Jon to the godswood where he swore his oath. It was peaceful, and all marks of battle were gone. So many had died here, so much had been lost, but the wood seemed untouched. The blood red leaves hung perfectly still, a single bird tittered for a moment before Jon received his sword from Edd and took his oath.

Awkwardly handed from the King’s knights to the Queen’s men and now on his own once more. Jon was sworn to the wall again, sworn to a brotherhood more outdated now than when he’d first joined at sixteen, nearly ten years before. He could not be kept in the dungeons now, and his old room had been a curious limbo: not of the family, not of the servants. He’d been on a lower storey, the same as Theon had. Sansa now slept in their father's old— no, his aunt and uncle’s old rooms. They were aunt Catelyn and uncle Ned to him. Sansa had given him Robb’s old chambers, as befit the eldest son of a noble family.

He fell asleep on the floor, his ribs aching from gasping sobs, and he was only roused late in the evening when a maid timidly knocked and cracked the door open. She exclaimed quietly when she saw him, her voice no louder than a mouse. He’d crawled onto the bed then, turned his back to her like he’d done to all the others, and barely heard her lay the tray of food on the table. Softly she explained that “her grace were worried as his lordship hadn’t eaten,” but he’d fallen back asleep too quickly to eat. It was the first time he’d slept in a real bed in months.

“Begging your pardon, my lord.”

Jon awoke to find Ser Xanar standing in his doorway.

“No matter,” Jon said, his voice rasping with the dryness of winter.

Ser Xanar came in and reached for the pitcher of water and served Jon, instantly making him uncomfortable. Jon had shed his clothes in the night and at that moment wore only the woolen underclothes that worked best in the colder climate. He didn't feel ashamed, but he also hadn’t liked that Ser Xanar seemed newly deferential when he’d so long been indifferent. Jon hated his own vulnerability.

“What is it, Ser Xanar?”

A slight hesitation. Jon looked up and waited, feeling old despite guessing that the young knight was around his age. He tried to think of this as another moment in a line that connected this new life to his past as Lord Commander, as a pretender to the throne, as consort to a queen. He tried to think of his future as a consequential demotion, a second chance. He breathed deeply, calming himself.

“You frightened the maid.”

Jon grimaced.

“Are you well, my lord?”

Ser Xanar crouched slightly, as though to comfort a child, and Jon stood, forgetting patience and brusquely pushing Ser Xanar aside. The covered plate from the night before became an easy target.

“I’m not a lord.” He slammed the lid down and it made no satisfactory noise.

“Except you are.”

 _No_ , he thought desperately, _I’m not_.

“I can hold no lands—”

“Of course, my lord. But none of us can escape who we are.”

There was a hint of amusement in Ser Xanar’s voice that rankled Jon. The Targaryens had no lands, even this far-flung Knight knew that, and to presume to tell Jon who he was? Before he could consider how he might set loose his anger, he was overwhelmed by a recognition that he hadn’t been angry in weeks. Not really. He’d been consumed by a grey cloud of grief that had obscured all else. The shock Sansa had yanked from him the day before had been a jolt, and this was another. He couldn’t remember this sharpness as he’d returned to himself after Ygritte had died, but there were many other things different this time.

“You slept long, and your princely sister was worried. The maid said you’d collapsed last night.” If Ser Xanar wanted an explanation, he carried on despite it. “Queen Sansa requests your presence in her chambers.”

Jon quickly dressed and met Sansa with an even keel, begging her blessing for the journey north. When Edd heard Jon was riding out the next day he grumbled more than the Maester about traveling with an injury. Jon pointed out that Edd could come later, but both knew it didn’t hold for the Lord Commander to be away while a former Lord Commander returned.

“You want to make sure the Castle remains standing and you all but stage a coup.” Edd shook his head.

An old veteran and the string-bean maester who’d been copying scrolls in the infirmary rode with them. The four of them didn’t speak much, Jon and the veteran relished the hunt for hares too hungry to stay in their burrows and Edd liked to sing old stories in the evenings. The new Maester of Castle Black for his part kept his lips tightly shut and refused to keep watch at night. Not that he was able to sleep well on the cold ground.

They found the courtyard of Castle Black full of black and mottled furs. Though he didn't know their names, Jon recognized a few among them, and he was heartened. As he handed his horse to a young groom, he couldn’t help but recall his question to Bran weeks before.

“There’s still a Night’s Watch?” He’d asked the newly named King Bran.

They’d been alone in the king’s chambers when Bran had explained further:

“The free folk do not fight for us. They do not want us to rule them. They do not want King Bran or Queen Sansa. They are nomads happiest beyond the Wall, and though they know how it has protected us for millennia, to submit to us and our knowledge would cost them something precious. So the Wall remains.”

Bran had paused and seemed to look through Jon more than at him. A frequent occurrence.

“Until?” Jon had prompted. 

Irritation had pricked Jon's palms, he knew that this Bran was something much more than the boy he had been when Jon had left him broken in his bed, and that he wasn’t toying with Jon. Bran was younger bodied, but older minded. He worked in ways Jon would never fully comprehend. Jon served at the leisure of the Three-Eyed-Crow wearing the mask of a just king.

“A skeletal band of men remains— you’ll forgive my phrase. But this time we will not lose what the Maesters hid from us before. We will keep a warg eye open for the White Walkers, those Others who did not come to Winterfell. Information will be shared freely. You will have all the dragon glass you could want at the castles along the wall. Or rather, you and your friends will.” Bran had smiled, a pale imitation of his former self, so strange now. “I will send you as many men as I can. Good men. Not just rapers and slavers. I am not certain what comes after this, but we will need men in the North.”

Jon had ridden out of Castle Black an age ago, through a town once ruined by the free folk he’d betrayed, after winter’s first deadly tremors. He had intended to never come back to the wall as a brother ever again. He thought he’d already lost so much to the Night’s King. He’d lost so much before any of them had known what it was all for. 

Now Jon grew colder as more eyes turned to him and the phantom weight of responsibility settled onto his shoulders. He wasn’t sure any of them knew much more now than they did then. He turned to Edd who was slowly dismounting. A groom took both their horses. Jon willed himself to keep his legs moving.

Bran wanted this, wanted the wolves of winter to usher in an age that remembered, for Jon to find the Others who had not been slain, who had been waiting for so long and would wait a thousand more years if they needed. Those who had not followed the Night’s King. And all Jon wanted was a blank snowfall to cover him, to forget.

“But even in one thousand years, will anyone believe the old stories? We didn’t,” Ser Daryn had confided one night while the knights had thought Jon was asleep.

“Be careful, my lord.” Ser Xanar had put an entirely too familiar hand on Jon’s shoulder as he’d headed to the stables of Winterfell for the last time.

He’d ridden out in the early dawn with grumbling crows despite his heart’s hesitation.

Tormund met Jon’s gaze from the gallery that ran along the courtyard of Castle Black. He recalled Tormund’s parting words in early winter. “You’ve got the north in you, the real north.” They had been like an oath to him, a call to come home when he’d been alone.

He’d been shackled on the King’s Road, all the way up to the gate of his erstwhile home, given free run once there only to turn his back in the clammy fog of an early winter morning. He’d missed Winterfell, but he’d left. He’d missed Castle Black, but now that he was here, he wanted to move on quickly. 

Jon hadn’t expected to see Tormund again for a long time.

Edd stepped to the center of the courtyard, surrounded by some of those who had fought the Wights and survived. They all had scars now. Gods, there were so few men.

“Bet you lot thought you were rid of me.” Edd grinned. “Unfortunately for you, I survived, and there’s still work to be done. The feast day’s over. Get back to your watch.”

His brothers in black seemed run down but returned to their tasks all the same. They had all seen enough battle in the last years to harden them to any turn of fate the Old Gods or the New might have for them. Those whose looks lingered on Jon thought perhaps they recognized him, but while the Ruin of King’s Landing lay heavy on everyone, it had remade him. He had become a stranger to himself in these days after the war’s end.

The free folk remained as everyone else left. The only one who moved was Tormund, coming toward him with a grin and his arms spread.

“Didn’t think I’d see— uff!” Jon lost the rest of his words as Tormund pulled him close.

It reminded Jon so clearly of their parting, several moons ago now. He wanted to believe it was the possibility of this reunion, of finding freedom, that had been pulling him forward.

“I’m glad you came back,” Tormund said, voice low in Jon’s ear.

Jon felt uneasy for a moment, and Tormund’s hands steadied him. _Came back from where? To what?_ He tried to read the meaning in Tormund’s eyes, but he was looking away as Jon watched Tormund carefully. The sounds around them were of the watchmen treading the walkways and the groom tending to the horses, the young Maester complaining to Edd beyond some doorway. Jon had wished he were going with Tormund when they’d parted, maybe that’s all he meant.

“A little bird told me you were coming north,” Tormund said, holding his shoulders. “Thought you might like some company on the first leg of your journey.”

So there was something which Tormund was not going to tell him, at least not right away. He gestured in the direction of his quarters. He knew the free folk were still watching them, waiting for something, and the sense of expectation filled him with foreboding. After weeks on the road he desperately wanted privacy.

Tormund was close behind Jon, crowding him on the way back to the place Jon had always written his letters and laid his head. Back to the empty chamber where he’d once come back to life, back to something less burdensome.

Jon felt the old ache try to rise within him, as it had that night in Winterfell. The seductive numbness of ghosts. Ygritte and Daenerys, of Rickon and Robb, of Catelyn and Ned. 

His step faltered and he felt the brief push that Tormund gave him, quietly urging him to keep going, to cross the threshold and close the door to his rooms.

Gods, Jon was tired. He went to the desk, but instead of looking at the pile of letters there, he leaned on its edge. Minutes passed while Tormund built a fire, and Jon found he was sitting on the floor.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Tormund was staring at the fluttering embers, down on one knee, as patient as a hunter. He was giving Jon space.

Until he wasn’t.

“Can you stand?” Tormund’s voice was gruff, no more than a soft rumble, and he put a hand under Jon’s arm, bringing him to a chair.

“I missed Bran’s coronation. And Sansa’s.” Jon sat.

Tormund grunted and pulled another chair to the fire.

“You killed the woman you loved,” Tormund said.

Jon jerked his head up ready to be antagonized, willing his anger to flare out, but Tormund didn't look at him.

“It takes time to come back from something like that,” Tormund added.

“Aren’t you tired, Tormund?”

“I got a pretty good night’s sleep. Ah, your bed...”

Jon followed Tormund’s look to Jon’s rumpled, hair covered cot.

“Where’s Ghost?” Jon asked.

“Haven’t seen him for a few days,” Tormund said, gesturing with his chin at Jon’s bed. “Usually he’s in here, when he isn’t out hunting. Waiting for you.”

Jon grunted. “Travel is tiring but I’ve slept more these last weeks than in the last ten years it feels like. But it isn’t over. It still isn’t done.”

“Of course, it frustrates me, too. We thought killing king icicle cock would be it, turns out it wasn’t. You’ve been good at thinking on your feet in the past. We all just have to keep moving.”

“I do. I understand that.” He rubbed his forehead. “I’m just tired of it.”

Tormund reached out a hand, rested it on Jon’s arm.

“It isn’t too much longer. I promise.”

“Can you? How can you promise?” Jon snapped. He knew it wasn’t fair, that Tormund was only trying to help.

“No, I can’t.” Tormund stiffened and pulled back. “But I wish I could.”

Jon looked up and Tormund’s eyes were full of a kind of yearning that came with sorrow. Like, when someone you cared about lost someone they cared about.

“I trust you, I rely on you.” Jon said. “I need you to be honest with me.”

“I won’t lie to you.” Tormund said, but Jon knew the unspoken words: _I may not always tell you everything._

 _Fine_ , he thought. They had to do things a certain way.

“What’re you doing here, Tormund?”

“Heard you're going north. I’m going with you.” Tormund repeated.

Jon’s mouth twisted.

“Don’t be stubborn.” Tormund’s smile was easy. He was leaning back in his tiny wooden chair, spreading out as the fire heated the room. “You want to go alone, but the Three-Eyed-Crow said you need your friends now more than ever.”

“You spoke to Bran?” Jon felt a chill creep into his clothes.

“He sent me a message,” Tormund said. “Warged and said you’re looking for the Others who didn’t come to Winterfell. You going to the Fist of the First Men? Do you need the Horn of Winter?”

“I thought Mance had that horn,” Jon said, a bit sharply.

Tormund raised an eyebrow but said nothing. 

Jon considered lying down, but he didn’t know if he even had it in him to climb into bed. He also didn’t know if Tormund would be able to just leave him alone.

“Yes, I’m looking for Others.”

“Some of the folk would be eager for a fight. They’re not the settling down type.” He regarded Jon for a long moment. “How would the Horn of Winter help you in this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then I’m definitely coming with you.”

Jon looked into the flames while Tormund waited for something more to come, and they let the silence rest on them.

Mance had threatened the Night’s Watch with the horn, but hadn’t known that Sam had found something at the Fist of the First Men and had suspected it was that self same horn, broken though it was. It had long been repaired by the time Tormund was needling Jon about it. Jon had left it in Winterfell before riding south to King’s Landing.

Sansa had given it to him when she’d summoned him to her chambers, his first morning back in Winterfell. She’d rearranged the room somewhat, put things in storage, brought others out and hung a tapestry Jon had never seen before. The character of her parents remained. Once he’d shut the door she’d lifted the bottom out of her wardrobe, placing a small carved box in his hands while she’d pulled finer fabrics out, old summer silks hiding the horn beneath them. He’d run a hand over the wooden lid and she’d watched him open it. Inside were two brooches, one for each shoulder of a garment, meant to hold it in place: a leaping silver trout and the snarling head of a direwolf, a matching pair.

The fire was crackling handsomely when Jon awoke, finding Tormund had left him. The bell was tolling for dinner, and had probably been what woke him. Yet distantly, he felt as though he’d just been running in the snow. The predominant impression fading from him was not of the cold, but the pleasant warmth of exercise. As the moments passed by and the bell finished it’s summons, he couldn’t remember anything else.

Jon found the brothers of the Night's Watch, all there was of them, milling about in the mess. The hall was more empty than Jon remembered it, and these men were effectively strangers to him. The stench of dry fish swimming in a potato and cream stew drove them to the fire to be served. This was all they could spare for the ill-begotten homecoming of their 999th Lord Commander. The last feast he’d been alive for had featured a stew of beef and tomatoes. Winter made men lean or starved them. The cream was a nice touch, at least.

The free folk were not there. Jon had seen them camping on the eastern side of the keep as he’d ridden in, their cooking fires throwing a smoke signal visible from a day’s ride away. Tormund had come to receive Jon, so some of his people had come to watch him and Edd ride in, but they did not remain inside this keep. They were still separate from the southron men. 

Edd sat at the high table, with some other men he supposed were the first steward or first builder. There as well sat the new Maester, obstinately wearing his taupe robes amongst a sea of black. There was one man among the men Jon thought he might sit with, now that all his old fellows were dead or gone. He was young, just a steward, but he’d been minding the keep these past few months while there had been no Lord Commander in the north. He’d been the first that Edd had written to when Jon had announced his intentions. He went by the name of Lush.

“Mind if I join you?”

Lush’s eyebrows rose til they met his messy fringe of straw-like hair.

“Not at all, m’lord.”

Wooden spoons scraped dully. Jon preferred the silence, but he tried to make light words with the young man, talking about battle scars and the price of candles. When Jon saw Edd’s gesture, he and Lush followed him to the rooms that had been Jeor Mormont’s when he’d been Lord Commander.

“You’re all right with him ranging north, what with Winter getting worse every week?” Lush asked Edd with forthrightness that surprised Jon.

Edd took it in stride. “I don’t like it myself, but I’ve got my orders, he has his, and you have yours.”

“Are the rangers going out with him?” Lush asked.

“No,” Jon said, “but I was hoping for volunteers to join me and the free folk.” He caught Lush’s surprised look.

“It ain’t right, riding out with the wildlings, even with everything.” He paused. “There’s not a soul north of us, ‘cept what sneaks through Eastwatch…”

Jon felt drawn out, like two parts of him were on a battlefield, turning swords on each other. He could truthfully say that he had orders from the King of Westeros, and the blessing of the Queen of Winter. Still he hesitated and could not voice his fear of an everlasting winter. To say it, would be to speak it into reality.

“When I returned, I made a promise.” Jon gritted his teeth, unable to go on, but Lush seemed begrudgingly satisfied by that simple fact.

“I’ll see who might want a fight.”

Later, Jon fell into his bed, the sheets smelling of Ghost’s wet fur, a screen guarding the embers that still popped in the grate. Earlier in the evening Jon had climbed to the top of the wall where unconcerned men looked north. _A war won should not have made them all fools in winter_ , Jon thought. The men had stiffened when they’d seen him, more watchful with their kinslaying, former Lord Commander beside them. Jon had said nothing, merely gazing north with them, out at the forest, beyond the dark, willing to see something to occupy his mind. He imagined the Lands of Always Winter, storms rolling through an endless night, and quickly fell asleep. It was easier to think of winter from the warmth of a bed.

Ghost pressed his wet nose to Jon’s face to wake him before dawn, to another misty day. Jon was used to this clamminess in the south, especially near the sea, where snow loathed to fall and instead the cold clung like fog to the islands and cliffs. That kind of winter unsettled him. Jon recalled that when they were children Theon had told him winters were always like this on the Iron Islands. Theon had shared the stories he’d been told before coming to Winterfell, about misty spirits of the dead, ships made of bone and ice, and recalling the ancient memory made Jon impetuously wish for someone from his childhood.

They went to the western gate and knocked. He ruffled Ghost’s fur as the direwolf rested his head against Jon’s hip and waited. Once the door was open, Ghost huffed out a breath of air and looked up at him.

“Go on,” Jon said, his voice quiet, and Ghost went.

He walked out after Ghost and looked south east. The hills rolled easily toward Queenscrown and he knew that further on was the Bay of Ice, beyond the ridge and several hundred more leagues. Now these farmlands that were only hospitable in summer were covered in snow, like the piles of down ready to be stuffed into bedding for rich merchants. He wanted to laugh about southerners on soft beds with no taste for winter, but it was as impossible as turning to catch the shadow of his lantern. The Gift was meant to be repopulated. Winter would continue it’s march to the south, and soon all of Westeros would be covered in snow, for gods knew how long. Bran thought Jon could do something to save them all, but no one knew what that was. It was a cruel joke, not something he could laugh at.

He walked the trampled path, watched Ghost chase creatures in the drifts, and didn’t let himself think of leaving because it was easy and unbearable at the same time. He couldn’t stay here, he had to head north. Ranging was dangerous, but the thrill appealed to him darkly. He feared failure not so much for himself, but because he wanted to succeed for the sake of the people who didn’t give a shit about him. Because he had been raised by a man who showed him that holding power should mean something. He didn’t want to rule, but he still wanted to care. He wondered if he might have lost that as well.

The sun was still sleeping over the bluffs when he began to walk back, calling for Ghost who came eagerly, his mouth stained with blood.

“At least one of us eats well up here,” Jon said, fondness rising in him.

The watch was changing as Jon came back, and he went to the hall where porridge was ladled out. It was warm and it was hearty, but once again Jon looked at how few there were, and frowned. He didn’t know how he could ask any of these men to come. 

Tormund came in with snow still on his boots, stomped over and said, “I couldn’t find you this morning.”

A man called Rivers looked askance at them both.

“You all right? You eating?” Jon asked.

Tormund shook his head.

“Come on.” Jon headed toward an empty bench.

Tormund shook his head again. “Not here.” He turned and left the hall.

So Jon quickly scarfed down a bowl, finishing just as the breakfast bell rang. Edd caught him at the door and asked him to stay for a few words.

“Lord Snow,” Edd’s voice echoed hollow from the high table. “You are a former Lord Commander and the toughest man to kill north or south of the wall. I name you First Ranger.”

The pounding on the tables was weak. 

“Your first mission comes from the King south of the Neck and the Queen of the North, together, to scout beyond the wall for anything that might be living… or otherwise.” All was silence. “Will you take any men with you?”

“Only volunteers,” Jon replied.

Not a soul stirred, none dared look at him.

Edd pressed on. “So be it. Volunteers will make themselves known to me in the coming days.” Edd drank from his tankard and slammed it on the table. “Right. Back to your watch.”

As he moved through the passages back to his quarters, Jon heard Ghost’s growling first and his breath hitched. Then he heard Tormund’s low chuckle and a smile tugged at his lips. This was a new footing they found themselves on now, yet the idea of going north with Tormund felt right. He would be happier in the north, even if he couldn’t help Bran, he’d be free for a time. And so he was smiling in earnest as he came around the corner.

Ghost was on his back, salivating on Tormund’s leg while the oaf rubbed rigorously at the beast’s chest and belly.

“Make sure Ghost chews you into nice small bits, all right? We don’t want him getting indigestion.”

“Ha!” Tormund leapt up and Ghost did as well. “Had to clean him up after he came back from his hunting, but I think he only wants to get back into your bed.”

“He keep it warm while I was in the south?”

“Ah… He missed you,” Tormund said, smiling down at the direwolf and patting his good ear with steady strokes; Ghost laid his head against the already slobbered leg and huffed contentedly.

“Did he now?” Jon asked mildly and opened the door to his room. He laughed when Ghost immediately climbed onto the bed. 

“There’s no disciplining a direwolf,” Tormund said.

“You can’t tame a dragon either.”

Tormund didn’t say anything, but Jon could imagine his raised eyebrow. There would have been no judgment if Jon decided to talk to him about Daenerys, and Tormund was one of the few people who had known Ygritte well. But once on the edge of speaking intimately, Jon pulled back. _I can speak to Tormund_ , he thought, as though replying to Sansa three cycles before, _but I’m not ready yet._

Jon took off his fur-and-hide cloak and hung it, keeping his back to the door, to Tormund, and the direwolf on his bed. He settled into the desk and looked at the old letters Lush had been collecting for him. Personal, none of them urgent. Jon knew they’d all heard by now. About his parents. About his aunt. About him. He sighed and looked up at Tormund, who was wearing an intent look.

“Why’d you come looking for me?”

“Wanted to see how you were.”

Jon didn’t answer, looking back down at the letters.

“You seem better than yesterday.” Tormund said. “Like you won’t fall over at the lightest touch.”

Jon saw Yara had written and skimmed her letter. She wanted his support in her petition for independence. “Theon could command a navy,” Yara said, the unspoken ‘if’ clear in his mind. _If Theon survives_. Jon imagined Theon, mortally wounded and living at the Citadel while he healed, perhaps indefinitely. They’d never been friends as children and yet he missed him like he missed Sansa. 

“How soon can the free folk move?” Jon asked, slowly shuffling through the rest of the letters.

“You know we like to travel light.” Tormund pulled the chair from the fireplace to the other side of the desk and sat. “But we’ve packed some ponies with food, since there won’t be much north of the wall.”

The day before, Jon had found a rune he didn’t know carved into the arm of that chair. Forced to describe it, he would have said it looked like a barn with a helmet on it. Tormund’s arm covered it, he was completely unaware of the vandalism.

“Where are they planning to go?” Jon asked.

“There are several villages that were abandoned when Mance began to gather his army, but free folk may have begun to resettle them when they thought winter was over. We also had word that some people were part of rebuilding Craster’s Keep, so our people wll probably stay there for the winter.”

“It unsettles me to think of anyone living north of the wall with winter riding down on us.”

“The folk who broke the border at Eastwatch are hard, none of them choose lightly between grain from a queen and eating trees. Or else they’re fools and deserve to be eaten by the wolves.”

“Maybe I’m the fool. Proven more than three times by now, I think.” Jon scoffed, trying to keep the words in, but his frustration was gaining traction. He’d thought he’d been fine, but— “Bran’s set me an impossible task. When I told the brothers I needed volunteers, they must have all thought me mad to ask. They must think this mission was my punishment, the thing that will finally kill me, and so no one will come with us. Even if I had a hundred men, I don’t know how we’d be keeping track of each other, let alone the land we’re crossing. I only ever went ranging once, and you know what happened. How am I supposed to search on such a large scale, with the snow and darkness to blind me?” Jon felt drained. “I don’t have nineteen years.”

Tormund’s look had softened somewhat while listening to Jon. He had a way of looking at a person that made Jon feel as though nothing on his face would pass unnoticed.

“You spent such a short time among the free folk, Jon Snow, you don’t even know half of what we’re capable of.”

“Tormund, I can’t ask you to come. You have others who need you.”

“Jon,” Tormund leaned in, his gaze pouring over Jon. “You need someone you can trust by your side right now. More than ever.”

Jon didn’t know why Tormund had waited for him but he was both relieved and worried about the prospect of a companion. He could rely on Tormund, but he wasn’t sure he’d be a good friend in return.

“I probably could use some help,” Jon said.

A smile slowly began to spread across Tormund’s face. “Just for now, or do you think we could stick by each other, see this through?”

“I’m not gonna be able to stop you from coming with me, am I?” Jon shook his head, unable and unwilling to hide his smile. 

“You can’t get rid of me easy. Go ahead and try to push me into a drift of snow,” Tormund said, his grin growing wilder. “See what happens.”

Jon recalled an accident he’d seen north of the wall, where a hunter had toppled off the path and disappeared, her shriek muffled by the soft snow that swallowed her whole. Others had immediately leapt to her aid, grabbing her feet and hauling her out. They’d saved her from suffocating.

“It would be safer with two,” Jon said. “For many reasons.”

“I swear to you, I won’t let you lose your way,” Tormund said, a bit more somber.

* * *

When Jon had awoken the previous evening, his hazy dream slipping away, he’d felt drawn to go and wait at the eastern gate, but couldn't remember why. He dressed quickly for dinner. Maybe Tormund had told him something as he had been dozing off, and the meaning rather than the words remained.

He’d hesitated as he’d crossed the courtyard, seeing no sign of his friend, his memory procuring no reason for him to be there, when the eastern gate had opened. The person wore patched furs like all of the free folk did, but it wasn’t Tormund, and he saw they carried half a dozen hare strung on a stick. It was unlikely they had a message for him. Before the door could shut however a large white beast had streaked in, nearly slamming the door into the person’s back. But instead of yelling, they had laughed in a melodic voice.

They’d cried, "It's the ghost!" And indeed it was.

Ghost had charged at him and knocked Jon over as he’d skidded to a stop. Once down, Ghost had licked at every inch of Jon's face and even nibbled at his ears.

"He must like you! He goes out hunting for days sometimes, waiting for his companion to return home after war— ah..."

Jon had begun to laugh, and the person he did not know, and who did not seem to know him, had joined in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "droning Andal-oak" is based on the langeleik, a droning zither from Norway whose name might mean "Anglo-Oak" but I can't confirm that after making note a few weeks ago. Fun fact, Jon learned how to play a "bowed harp" or "horse-hair harp" which is based on the tagelharpa, which is played in Scandinavia and other parts of Europe.
> 
> “If not now, when?” is taken from a rabbinical saying attributed to Hillel the Elder: “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And when I am for myself, what am ‘I’? And if not now, when?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I don't know when the next chapter will be up as I'm currently in school, but I do have an intended ending I am working toward. If you're interested in reading more of my work, I've written for several fandoms, but these are my two other GoT fics:
> 
> ["She never wanted wanted to leave."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26670043) (800~ words, Jon/Daenerys) is about a twist at the very end of s8 that changes who dies. I just thought, go hard or go home. Includes graphic violence and major character death.
> 
> [A Drunken Guessing Game](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26686918) (1500~ words) is my ode to the comedy of Podrick & Tyrion. My first attempt at a crack fic, which I very much enjoyed. Since it's platonic at heart, it's gotten less love. I think its funny, if I do say so myself.


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